I don’t have any words, I offer him a small nod, the only thing I can manage through my current spiral.
I’m having trouble processing all of this. It’s too much.He’stoo much.
He’s thoughtful. Respectful. He pays attention to me and my interests. He’s planned this whole date aroundme. What he thought I would like. In a place where he knew it would be easier for me to relax and let loose.
Fuck. Tears prick at my eyes, and I have to blink them away.
“Let’s ball?” I ask with what feels like a watery smile.
He matches it. “Let’s ball.”
Ryan
Isa is shit at baseball.
But I also expected this. She straight up told me she’s not the most athletic or sporty. But I didn’t think she’d bethisbad.
“Isa, you do realize the point is for you to actually hit the ball, right?” I egg her on, loving how feisty she gets when I give her shit like this.
“Well, if you threw the ball better, maybe I could!” she calls back across the room from where she’s standing at the plate. Her words are taunting but there’s a wide smile on her face.
I drop the ball I’m holding into the bucket and walk out from behind the net screen protecting me from absolutely nothing since she hasn’t connected with a single pitch I’ve lobbed her way.
“Here, let me help you,” I offer, walking up behind her.
She pushes her helmet back up her head so it’s not impairing her vision. It is a little big for her, but when I saw I could special order her a helmet in her favorite color, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get it, even though I had no reason for her to even have it. Hadn’t even gotten her to agree to a date with me yet.
It’s called manifesting.
I place my hands on her hips and hear the slightest hitch in her breath at my touch. I pretend I didn’t hear it—even though I did and I’m mentally jumping around with how my touch affected her—and instead focus on adjusting her stance. I stick a foot in between hers to kick her back foot out a bit wider so they’re about shoulder width apart, then I square off hershoulders to match her hips. I shift her front elbow, lifting it a bit higher.
“Now, choke up on the bat.”
“Excuse me? You want me to do what with the bat?”
I laugh. “Move your hands up on the grip a little more. Here, like this,” I say as I drag her top hand up a couple inches and then her lower hand right below the first. “That should be better. Now, when you swing, make sure you keep your feet planted, keep your eyes on the ball, and follow all the way through. Commit to the swing,” I say as I twist her body, helping her swing the bat, “and follow through.” I bring the bat through the strike box and continue the swing until we’re twisted around, and the bat touches my back.
I reset her position and go through the motions one more time. Once I have her back in the starting set up, I step back and a chill seeps in from the lack of her closeness.
“Wanna give it another try?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she replies, voice a bit breathless.
Interesting.
I walk back over to my pitching position, grab a ball, and get ready to toss it. “Ready?” she offers me one single dip of her chin in a determined nod. I smile at how serious she looks.
I swing my arm back and give her a soft, under arm toss.
I step back behind the guard in case she hits the ball and watch as it draws closer, closer, closer…
Ping.
The ball just clips the edge of her bat, fouling off behind her.
But she hit it.
A wide smile breaks out across my face.
